


The F Word

by solisandluna



Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6472462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solisandluna/pseuds/solisandluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin had never wanted the Captain to find out about his past and the the Captain had always been fine not asking. But unfortunately, the young reporter hasn't been put in a position to keep it hidden any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Telegram

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> More warnings to come as the story progresses.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.

The Captain had been busy with his paper when it had happened. It was part of their routine, he would read the newspaper and grumble over politics and skip over the sports and Tintin would go through all of his post, of which there would always be plenty for him to read, a mixture of fan mail, correspondence and if they were lucky, an assignment.

A loud sound burst through the Captain’s train of thought and Haddock jumped at the bark of a laugh that broke the quiet of the morning. He looked up to see Tintin with a hand clasped over his mouth, as though he was as surprised what came out of it as the Captain was.

“Didn’t realise you got a lot of funny post,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t. It’s-” the hand returned to his mouth again, clearly trying to put a stop on all the unwanted sounds spilling from it.

It wasn’t at all like Tintin. It wasn’t often that the Captain saw the lad out of control and he was clearly trying and failing to hold onto it. He couldn’t see how the post could rattle his friend so much.

“You all right, lad?” Haddock asked, dark bushy eyebrows now knitting together, because something was clearly off.

It took Tintin a moment to speak, pulling the hand away from his mouth for the third time.

“Yes, I- er…” he frowned down at the telegram in his hands, clearly thinking hard. A full minute had passed by before, he blurted out, “my father’s dead.”

The Captain recoiled, spluttering. Out of everything he had been expecting to hear, that was not on his list.  He didn’t even know Tintin had a father until now, or any family of that matter. There had been no mention of them and, though the Captain couldn’t deny he was a curious man, he didn’t ask questions or press for anything that Tintin didn’t want to give. It came as a shock, but doubtless it would be an even bigger shock to Tintin.

“My boy- I’m so sorry- I-”

But before the Captain could carry on fumbling over his words, Tintin stood up.

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly, “I mean, it’s… It’s not, but… I just…” the boy’s cheeks were flushing red and Haddock could see that he was becoming flustered. The lad was supposed to be the unflappable one, it was usually his job to go blundering about and getting himself in a tizzy. But the Captain had come to know that death brought out all sorts of sides of people that weren’t expected.

“It’s all right lad,” the Captain said softly, making Tintin pull up short, his mouth clamping shut, “it’s all right”

Tintin’s cheeks were burning and Haddock could see the telegram trembling in his hands, “I…” the boy’s words were failing him fast, “can I…”

“Thundering typhoons, of course you can leave! It’s your home as much as it is mine!"  
  
Haddock saw the corner of Tintin’s mouth twitch and heard a mumbled thank you, before the lad turned and all but ran from the room.


	2. The Good News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> More warnings to come as the story progresses.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.

Tintin hurried to his room, shutting the door behind him. He heard Snowy whine enquiringly from the bed, but he didn’t respond to it. His hands shaking, he pulled up the telegram to his line of vision and another laugh erupted from him, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t even know what he felt, which was a very odd feeling in itself.

Something in his mind informed him that it was shock, which would certainly make sense. But mingled in there was something else. Disbelief? Relief? Happiness? Was he even allowed to be happy at the news of his father’s death?

He got the answer to that question almost immediately, a vicious little  _ yes _ snarling from somewhere within him. Yes, he was happy. The laughter was more likely to be nervous reaction, but he was happy. It was a bitter, vehement, gleeful sort of happiness and it scared Tintin. He’d seen so much death and never had he been happy about it, not even if it meant his safety or if it secured a country’s freedom. But god, he felt happy now.

“I win,” he hissed under his breath, before catching himself.

He paused for a minute before heading over to the bed and sitting down. He shouldn’t have sounded like that, he wasn’t supposed to be so… triumphant. But for whatever reason, it felt like a victory. He’d won. He’d got away, he’d made a name for himself, he was a successful reporter. He’d  _ survived _ . And what had his father done? Broken his neck falling down the stairs. So entirely dull and mundane and though it was far from the death that he deserved, it was at least boring, almost comical.

What a stupid way to die, falling down the stairs.

He turned to Snowy and spoke, “Father’s dead.”

Snowy started to growl as soon as he said that word, but Tintin rubbed the soft, curly fur, stroking away the growls.

“No, Snowy, he’s dead. He’s…” He was dead. Suddenly, Tintin choked on a sob.

He’s dead.

His father was dead. It was over. There would always be people after him, so many organisations and gangsters and drug rings that he had fought against, that would want his blood. But they couldn’t  _ hurt _ him. The only man who could do that, who had ever done that was waiting to be put in the ground.

Tintin ran a hand down his face and let out a shuddering breath.

“Thank god.”

“Tintin?”

Tintin started, jumping up from the bed at Haddock's loud knock, Snowy following suit at his master’s sudden apparent call to arms. He’d almost forgotten about the Captain. Oh god, the Captain. Panic seeped deep into his stomach and he felt his whole body tense. How on earth would he be able to hide it from his friend, his closest friend, how he really felt about his father’s death? That he was celebrating the bastard’s demise, not grieving. And Captain Haddock, kind, protective, Captain Haddock would want to help Tintin in anyway he could. And to trick him like that, to make him believe that he was in mourning... that just didn’t seem fair.

If he hadn’t opened the telegram at breakfast, he probably wouldn’t have even told him. Or if he had a little time to think, he could have at the least polished up his acting skills. It had caught Tintin by surprise. If he had known, if he had any inkling of what he was about to read, he would have controlled his reaction, would have acted calmly, acted like his usual self, anything other than laughing!

But as it stood, he had been at the breakfast table with his friend and it had been a normal morning until the happy bomb fell. It was impossible to tutor his reaction into anything other than the raw emotion that the Captain was witness to.

He couldn’t have the Captain thinking that he was upset. That would be cruel. But Tintin couldn’t face telling his friend the truth. He didn’t want the Captain’s view of him to change. He didn’t want any pity, worry, or even worse, disbelief. The few people he had told hadn’t believed him and though there was nothing indicating that the Captain would react the same way that they did, it still put Tintin on the defensive. He didn’t want to risk it again.

And he didn’t know how to answer the door.

“Laddie? Are you all right?”

Tintin stood up, curling his quivering hands into fists. He strode to the door, opened it with decisiveness and determination, only to have all words retreat back down his throat and he was left stammering. He sincerely hoped that his speechlessness wouldn’t become permanent. It was getting quite annoying, truth be told.

“I… er…” the Captain was watching him patiently and Tintin tried his best to speak, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once more, “Could… could I be alone, Captain?”

As soon as he said the words, he felt guilt bleed into his gut, but the Captain, looking far from hurt, nodded understandingly.

“Aye, of course. You know where I’ll be if you need me.”

Tintin nodded and spoke again as the Captain was turning to leave, words starting and jittery, “I’ll be fine, you know,” as he saw the older man’s head rotate, eyebrows raised, his stomach gave a nervous flip and he shrunk back a little, “you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Thundering typhoons, boy,” he muttered under his breath. Two weather-hardened hands rose up to clasp Tintin’s shoulders, dwarfing them in his grip, “you don’t have to be fine! No one’s  _ asking _ you to be fine! You’ve every right to be a god damned mess if you need to be!” he shook his head, “you don’t have to be the boy wonder on this one, Tintin. It’s all right to not be… y’know…”

“Myself?” Tintin asked quietly, smiling the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Y’know what I mean,” Haddock grumbled, hands moving from the boy’s shoulders to his own pockets, “nothing shakes ye, laddie. And… with things like this… it’s all right to be a bit shaken.”

The reporter smiled a little sadly, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his head, “I know, Captain,” he murmured. And the thing was, he probably would be shaken. He wouldn’t be fine, he would be a mess if the relationship he’d had with his father had ever been anything close to amicable. But it hadn’t. And as it stood, the only “hard” thing about this was pretending that he cared.

“I just… I don’t want you to worry.”

Haddock shook his head, making a noise that sounded more like a gust of wind than any discernable words.

“Don’t want me to worry? Blistering barnacles, if I don’t worry about you then who will?! And don’t say Snowy,” the Captain said as Tintin opened his mouth, sternness giving a slight hardness to his voice.

Tintin’s smile faded when he saw just how serious the Captain was and he sighed, shoulders drooping. As much as he would like to point out that he didn’t actually  _ need _ anyone to worry about him, he knew that he wouldn’t improve matters by saying so. And, well, the Captain wasn’t wrong. Except for maybe the Thom(p)sons on the cases they took together, there wasn’t anyone else asides from him and Snowy that looked out for him. Unsure of what to say, he merely nodded in ascension.

Haddock patted the boy’s arm, “I know you like your space and I’ll let you have it now. I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to do this on your own.”

“I already knew that, Captain,” Tintin replied, a warm smile creeping onto his face, “but thank you for reminding me.”

He nodded, giving Tintin’s shoulder one last friendly grip with his hand, before finally turning to leave his friend’s doorway. The reporter watched him for a moment, before retiring to his room.

He could tell that his friend wasn’t satisfied by his response and he couldn’t blame him. Tintin should, by all accounts, be far more emotional than this, for even the small signs of grief weren’t there; red eyes, sniffling, cracks in his voice. He had none of that and Tintin unfortunately wasn’t gifted with the greatest of acting skills. Sure, he could lie and make his way out of a sticky situation by spinning a tale, but he couldn’t cry on demand. That sort of talent he lacked and he didn’t want to start learning just so he could trick his friend.

Tintin made his way to the bed and sat down on the edge with a sigh. Snowy cocked his head, before making his way to his master and pawing at his leg, whining.  
  
“I’m all right, Snowy,” the boy sighed, though his voice remained dejected in spite of his words. He reached down to stroke the fluffy white fur, though his pet still whined anxiously, “I just don’t know what I’m going to do about the Captain. I think he can see right through me already. But he’s already involved now and I’ll need his help,” Tintin’s shoulders slumped dejectedly once more and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, frowning up at his ceiling, “I just wish I didn’t need to.”


	3. The Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> More warnings to come as the story progresses.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and support.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.

Tintin was skulking just outside of the firelight, watching almost cautiously as the Captain leafed through his tome. He had been stood there for a few minutes now, watching the firelight flicker and dance over the Haddock’s face. He was loathe to interrupt the peaceful image and every time he tried, nerves tied his feet to the ground and there he would stay.

The reporter didn’t want to involve him any more with his father’s death than he already had, but there was no one else to turn to. It had been yesterday that he had received a phone call from his father’s lawyer about his will and he had been trying since then to work out what to do about it. As his last living relative, Tintin would inherit everything his father once owned (not that he wanted any of it). But because of it, not only did he have to arrange the funeral, he had to sort through all of his father’s possessions and put the house up for market. He’d never had to do this before and it made Tintin horribly aware of his youth. It wasn’t the sort of thing that people his age dealt with. 

Even if they were orphaned, children who’d lost a parent would typically have a guardian of some sort to arrange things. But it had been a long time since Tintin had been under the care of someone he could consider a legal guardian or under anyone’s care for that matter. He had been so used to taking care of himself for so long now that the idea of someone else doing it for him was foreign. Even coming to live at Marlinspike, with a butler to do almost everything imaginable for him, had been a somewhat difficult adjustment.

And now he had to seek out help, concerning something he had no desire to involve himself with. He didn’t want help, but out of all of his friends, he knew the only person he could really go to was the Captain. Though he had other friends, he didn’t feel comfortable having anyone else handling something so personal. Until a few days ago, he didn’t have a father. His parents, his past, they were never mentioned, never asked about and that was how he liked it. That part of his history hadn’t been privy to anyone and he wanted to keep it that way with as many people as he could. If he was lucky, if he could pretend well enough, the Captain wouldn’t catch on to the true nature of his relationship with his father. The boy simply wanted everything squared away and never spoken of again, but it wouldn’t happen if he was fumbling his way through legalities and bungling up everything on the way.

Tintin had heard him talk about his mother’s death and, seeing as he was the last of his line, presumably he must of taken care of the funeral and such. Tintin didn’t want his friend to get any closer to learning about his complicated past than he already was, but the reporter felt... lost. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to and he didn’t enjoy it.

Taking a breath, he stepped forward and cleared his throat, “Captain?”

The Captain jumped at the break in his reverie, only for the surprise to ease away and his features to soften at seeing who it was. “Tintin. How are you, my lad?”

Guilt squirmed again in Tintin’s stomach, but he ignored it, taking the seat opposite the Captain.

“I’m all right,” he said, with a small shrug, averting the Captain’s gaze and turning his face to the flames, “I… I need a favour from you.”

“Anything.”

“I…” Tintin interlaced his fingers, shifting a little in his seat, “The funeral,” he blurted out, “I… I don’t know what to do. I need to put the house up for sale and sell off my father’s possessions and figure out who to invite and who to tell and talk to the lawyer about the will and… I-I don’t know how to do it,” he looked up at him, his eyes pleading, “Would… would you come with me? I don’t want to be any bother, but…” the frantic flurry of words had lost its steam and Tintin’s voice shrunk, small and quiet, “I really don’t know what to do.”

The Captain gazed for a moment, blue eyes glittering with some emotion Tintin couldn’t quite decipher. But then he reached over and patted Tintin’s leg, “Of course, I’ll come with you! I’ve been through all of this before, laddie. We’ll get it all sorted, don’t worry. Besides, you didn’t really think I was going to let you go back on your own anyway, did you?”

"I..." Tintin smiled a little, shaking his head, "I should have guessed,” his words were still muffled by guilt and nervousness, but his gratitude reached through regardless, “Thank you, Captain.”

Haddock waved away his thanks with a swinging hand and a mumbled, “Thundering typhoons, no need to thank me, lad,” he placed the book on his leg, pages split to keep track of where he was, “so, when do we need to set on our course?"

"As soon as possible," Tintin sighed, sinking back into the armchair, "tomorrow, if you don't-"

"Don't be daft, boy! Of course, I don’t mind,” he sprung to his feet, as though Tintin had told him that they had to leave right this second, “I’ll start packing now,” he turned to leave, but then paused, looking back to the reporter, dwarfed slightly in the large armchair, “Is… Is there no one else who can help you? N-now I’m not sayin’ I don’t want to!” the Captain blustered hurriedly, “I just wondered… is there no one…”

Tintin shrugged, though something in his chest constricted, “Last of my line.”

The Captain nodded, “Not easy, is it?”

For the first time since he received the telegram, Tintin felt what people would have expected him to feel: grief. Just not for his father. His breath pulled short and his fingers curled a little, “No,” he breathed, “it’s not.”

Haddock paused, before stepping forward and gripping Tintin’s shoulder. The boy looked up to see the older man’s blue eyes glinting and a sad, understanding smile creasing his weather worn cheeks. He gave a squeeze, before turning and heading out of the room.  
  
Tintin slumped back in his chair and sighed, head shifting to gaze idly into the fire. There was no denying that this was not a situation that he wanted to be in. It was like he had left everything in his will out of spite, as though he wanted Tintin to have to sift through all of his things. He must have known that Tintin wouldn’t have wanted anything from him, not even money and certainly not the house. He hadn’t wanted anyone to become involved in this, but if it had to be anyone, he was glad it was the Captain. He trusted him, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to trust for years. 


	4. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry this has taken me a year to update! Thank you all for your support and comments, it's very much appreciated.
> 
> More allusions to child abuse in this chapter and they will increase as the story goes on.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.

The drive to Tintin’s home, a small village on the outskirts of Geel, was one of silence, broken only by directions given by Tintin and the Captain’s blustering curses over the maps. Tintin counted every time he said he was better at navigating the seas than stupid country lanes, a tiny smile pulling at his mouth. Still no questions came about his father, his family, his childhood, not at a single point in the journey and he started to wonder what present he could buy the Captain once the whole affair was all over. He knew the questions would not help, though they no doubt burned in his mind, especially as his silence on the matters of his family continued to stretch on. Tintin couldn’t find it in himself to express his gratitude, certain that any speech he’d come up with would soon devolve into something inadequate and awkward. And so, the silence stretched on, all the way to the village.

The tightness in his chest hardened its grip as they drew closer to his village. He recognised it, all the small landmarks along the way and watched them go by with a frown. The last time he’d seen them, he was running past them, with Snowy at his heels and all he could carry on his shoulders. It felt so strange to be returning now, in a car no less, knowing that he was leaving a mansion behind him. He would have never had guessed that he would have been able to be so fortunate in life, especially as he had less than a head’s start. To have friends, a home, a career… when he had started he had just prayed that he wouldn’t become homeless.

He insisted (though there hadn’t been much protest) that they speak to the lawyer first, saying that he wanted it out of the way as soon as possible. Although there was an element of truth in this, he was also putting off going back home for as long as he could. Foolish and childish (a theme that seemed to haunt his actions of late) though it was, he could not help himself. A part of him, a part he was doing his best to ignore, was still frightened, was still small; it was telling him to run, to hide in Marlinspike Hall where there was familiarity and the Captain and  _ safety _ . But it had been a long time since Tintin had ran, since he had had to run. He was a fighter now and fight on he would.

Tintin spoke little slivers of several languages, small phrases to get him by, but the language of lawyers was not one of them; and there was for more to a will than he could have guessed. He felt horribly small as throughout the conversation, the Captain’s voice grew more dominant and Tintin shrunk further back into his chair, feeling ever so out of his depths. He felt small, like a child at a doctor’s appointments where all questions were asked to the parent and not the patient. Though there was little he could add that was useful, he still felt inadequate and it was a feeling he was unused to. He made a note (reporters habit, to bring a notepad and pencil wherever he went), of the figure he would inherit, only to scribble down under it possible charities to donate it to. It was illogical and stupid, but the money felt tainted by association. He wanted nothing from that man.

They left the lawyer’s office, the paperwork under one arm, Snowy under the other. Tintin found himself wondering if his father had remembered him, thought about who would be inheriting his possessions, or whether he had made the will when Tintin was born and forgotten all about it. He suspected the latter; he hadn’t sought him out after he left and even if that was a blessing, it still left a sting.

“Thank you, Captain,” his voice was distant as he got into the car, “I have to admit, it all went quite over my head.”

“Think nothing of it lad,” the Captain replied in his usual gruff way, getting into his own seat and starting the engine, “it’s hard enough without all this legal rubbish,” he turned to Tintin, “home then?”

_ ‘No,’ _ Tintin thought,  _ ‘home is far away from here; it’s sitting by the fire with you and it feels further away than it’s ever been.’ _ But of course, these ruminations stayed unspoken and he nodded in assent.

Tintin was lucky he remembered where his house was; it wasn’t so much the time he’d spent away from there that fogged his memory, but that he had tried his best never to think of home again. The fingers running through Snowy’s curly fur tightened as the house drew up, his breath shortening at its sight. Snowy whined, a small, whimpering sound and a shiver of shame passed down his spine as he realised that the sound was exactly the way he felt. He shouldn’t be so afraid, after the things he’d done, the things he’d seen. It was just a house. An empty house, belonging to a dead man. No danger here, only ghosts.

He was unsure how to react when they pulled up to the house. He was not happy to see it, but he wasn’t sure if he should pretend to be happy either. This was no homecoming. It was wisest, he decided, to make no comment. He noticed a tremor quivering his hands as he shut the car door to and clenched it into a fist. He wasn’t there. His father was dead, waiting to be put in the ground. There was no adversary tp defeat. Tintin frowned, determined, took a breath and headed to the house.

After the Captain’s insistence that he had the luggage, Tintin unlocked the house- his house now- and stepped inside. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t obliterate all memories of this place. There were good memories here, but they were rarely revisited, as it was difficult to untangle them from the dark ones that would plague his mind should he let them. Emotions rose up in his chest, pushing all air from his lungs. So little had changed; though it was filthier than he remembered, not a lot was truly different. Though covered by a layer of grime or dust, things, so far, were still in their rightful place; Alphonse Mucha’s ‘Moon’, his mother’s favourite painting, still hung in the hallway, the same remnants of glass still in the frame. He remembered staring up at it as a child, wondering how the stars on her dress managed to glow, even though it was only paint. He also remembered his father’s fist breaking the glass, a missed target and enough of a distraction for escape. His black influence bled into all good things in this place.

His reverie broke as the Captain came through the doorway, arms heavily loaded with with suitcases and moving boxes.

“Good heavens, Captain, you’ll break your back!” He slipped his hand under the handle of a suitcase, easing it off of him in spite of his protests, “perhaps we should have brought Nestor with us after all,” he grunted, depositing the suitcase down with a thud.

He chuckled at that, “No, the man needs a break. Besides, I’d rather had all the fires lit in Marlinspike hall than go back to a cold house,” he dropped his own trunk unceremoniously on the ground, before leaning the boxes against the wall.

It was very odd indeed to have the Captain standing in the hallway of his childhood, two separate parts of his life colliding. It was comforting though. He’d brought a piece of home with him, a shining light to ward off the darkness that threatened to spill from all the cracks and corners of that house. He was a reminder that his life was no longer here. It was with the Captain, with Snowy, with the friends he had made in the years since he had left. The house was a shell and soon he would sell it on and all bad things that had happened there would dissipate like mist against the morning sun as a new family would make new memories in it; hopefully better memories.

“Right, should we get packing then lad?”

“I think what we need to do first is set the beds. We don’t want to get tired from all the heavy lifting, only to find we can’t go to bed when we want to. I’ll get them sorted and you can start putting the boxes together.”

While Tintin said this, he didn’t know exactly how much he’d be taking back with him- or if he’d be taking anything back at all. He had a feeling that everything in this house would be tainted by association, that every time he would look at something he’d brought back, he could only see the bad memories and none of the good ones. Perhaps he could sell it on instead, like he would with the house or donate it to charity. He hoped that the Captain’s curiosity would keep at bay when none of the boxes would return with them to Marlinspike, though it may very well surge up before then, when he’d undoubtedly notice his dry eyes at the funeral, the stiffness of his lip and the marring of his brow. He tried to divert his thoughts away from the Captain’s discovering his secrets by ascending the stairs that had killed his father.

…

His room was untouched, a thick layer of dust covering every surface, softening his tentative footfalls as he stepped inside. Even though it was his, he felt like an outsider, intruding into a somber place meant only for silence. He realised he wasn’t even breathing as he moved in, looking around at the relics of his old life, at all the things he had left behind. He’d held so many things in that room dear to him at one time, his books, his toys, model airplanes, toy soldiers and stuffed animals; he remembered thinking at the time how would ever manage without all of them. It turned out that when all he wanted was a place to sleep and a hot meal, his belongings were very easy to forget.

He knew, technically, it hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like an age. He was an entirely different person now. He’d grown up very fast (in everything but height), built a career, knew how to cook, knew how to pay the bills, look after himself. It was wildly different to the last time he was here, when he was packing as quickly and silently as he could, heart beating out of his chest. It had been the night he’d reached breaking point, the night he decided he wouldn’t take any more and he’d never looked back since.

Tintin pulled himself out of his reverie and moved to the bed. Taking the toys off the bed and placing them onto the floor, he pulled the sheets off the mattress in a flurry of dust.

“Well, this won’t do,” he said to himself between coughs, his eyes watering as dust entered his lungs, Snowy sneezing in unison.

He hoped that the single bedsheets hadn’t been thrown out because he couldn’t sleep in these musty sheets. The thought of the dustmites alone was enough to make his skin crawl. The house wasn’t a large one and he couldn’t exactly get lost in it the way he could at Marlinspike, but it still felt bizarre how well he knew it. He moved to the linen cupboard without thinking, even though he hadn’t done so for years. Being in the house was like being in a terrible dream, where everything was both familiar and strange at once, where the memory and the nightmare dissolved so much that you couldn’t tell the difference between them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get rid of the feeling as long as he was there, but he still couldn’t help but try and shake it off.

Once he’d set his own bed, it was with grim determination that he moved to his father’s room. It had been awhile, since he’d had the privilege of playing host, but he still knew that a guest needed fresh sheets. He would need to pack everything inside the house one way or another, so it would be foolish to shy away from his father’s room now. Even knowing all this, he still stood outside the unopened door for a good few minutes before entering. Out of all the rooms in the house, this was the place where he had the least memories. He only went in there when his mother was there and after she died, he didn’t dare step foot in there; the very thought of it had filled him with dread, the possibility of awakening the monster that lurked deep within. 

Now that he was in there, the room devoid of all demons and terrors, it didn’t seem quite so terrifying and he felt some of the age old terrors that had buried themselves deep in his heart dissipate like a morning mist being greeted by sunshine. It was even weirder being in this room than his own, but he did his best to ignore it, pulling off the bed sheets and pillowcases with the speed of a child ripping off sweet wrappers. He hadn’t heard the Captain come in and when he spoke, his reaction was probably a little more intense than it would have been if they were at home.

“I’m sorry my boy, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he offered a grin and a hearty pat to the shoulder which broke a smile onto Tintin’s face.

“That’s alright, Captain,” he replied, “I was just making your bed for you. I’ll be down in a second.”

“Take your time. This is your old man’s room, I presume?” he asked, looking about him.

“Yes, it is,” he turned back to his task at hand, steeling himself against any questions that might be thrown his way.

“How does it feel to be back?”

“... Strange,” that, at least was the truth. He really didn’t enjoy lying to the captain and would prefer to avoid it if he could, “a lot of things have changed since I’ve been back here.  _ I’ve _ changed a lot since I was last here. It’s like being inside an old photograph.”

“It’s been a long time then since you’ve been here?”

He could hear the surprise in his voice and Tintin couldn’t blame him. He knew that for an adventuring reporter he was young for his age and Haddock was probably trying to calculate in his head how many years it could have been since he’d left home. He wasn’t quite ready to admit to him that he had run away at the tender age of thirteen because that had the insinuation that he  _ had _ to run away, because by that point there had been nothing left for him to do. The Captain didn’t need to know about the day he had finally reached breaking point.

“It’s been awhile. My father and I weren’t very close, so I never came round for holidays or anything like that,” the half truth rolled off his tongue with ease and he felt the knot in his stomach ease if only slightly.

“I’m sorry, lad.”

It was very easy to mistake the Captain as being only a rough, weather worn Scot, filled to the brim with nothing but booze and profanities, but Tintin knew better. He’d seen the man at his worst and at his best and he knew that at his core, he was kind and he cared for his friends fiercely, even if he had a gruff way of showing it. He could hear the genuine regret in his voice and was grateful he didn’t know the whole truth. He didn’t like the idea of the Captain being angered or saddened by the ghosts of his past, “It’s all right,” he assured him, turning to smile up at him, “that was just how it was.”

-

They had had a long day of sorting out the house; unpacking boxes, sifting through possessions, rifling through the kitchen to throw out anything that was ready to go out of date. After many hours of trying to decide if he wanted to keep anything for himself and after their long drive, Tintin had thought that it would stir up enough exhaustion to put him into a long, deep sleep. He had been wrong. He awoke in the dark, in a tangle of bedsheets and the dregs of his nightmares clinging to him; he knew he was in his old room in his old house, but he was still half dreaming and he could also hear his father’s footsteps down the hall, a steady, horrible thudding that was growing louder.

He blindly reached for the lamp and once he switched it on, he remembered why he was there. His father wasn’t coming down the hall. He wasn’t thirteen any more and he no longer lived in that house. His father was dead. He knew this and even as he pushed out a shaky sigh of relief through his mouth, residue adrenaline still surged through his veins. Even though he knew what was happening, it was like his body didn’t, still preparing him for the monster that stalked the hall outside.

He pulled himself out of bed and stumbled to the door. He was going for a walk, he told himself, he absolutely was not checking to see if the hallway was clear. Tintin quickly flipped on the switch and stepped out into the hall. There was no one to be seen and he sunk against the door frame. He stood for a moment, shivering slightly as his pyjamas, damp with sweat, became cold. He was about to go back to bed when he heard a noise and he froze, familiar panic seizing him for one moment, before he realised what exactly the noise was.

Snoring.

His father had never snored, which was why it was so notoriously difficult for him to do anything at night with he had no indication whether he was asleep or not. He let out a shaky laugh when he remembered that of course, the Captain was staying as well. He started to move down the hall before even thinking about why, slowly and quietly opening the door when he reached the source of the racket. A sliver of light fell on the Captain’s, who was clearly in been in a far deeper sleep than Tintin as the light didn’t wake him up. It was strange seeing him in the bed that had belonged to the source of his childhood nightmares, that had been the cause of his misery for such a long time.

Out of nowhere, tears welled in his eyes and he did his best to rub them out with the base of his palms. He was being stupid. Tired and stupid. He had no reason to be upset, none whatsoever. He still couldn’t stop himself drawing parallels, the Captain sleeping in his father’s bed, the Captain, who he could always utterly rely on, who treated him with more kindness than he thought men his age capable of. It was horribly unfair that they had met so late. It was unfair that he had had to deal with such a terrible father, unfair that only now he was realising just how different his childhood could have been if he had had someone like Haddock. Nothing about it was fair, but there was nothing he could do about it, there never had been. Unable to look at the sleeping figure any more, who was still snoring away, he quietly shut the door and slunk back to bed.


End file.
